Street Entertainers

My neighborhood held a nearly endless variety of entertainment. It was totally free. All you had to do was look out your window to see the amazing Hoosier show. You didn't need a barker, brightly colored posters, or even circus lights. A pair of ears was all that was necessary to alert you to the upcoming entertainment.

Monday was hangover day. The only exciting sights on Monday were arguments over parking spots, which didn't happen often. Pretty boring, all-in-all. I do, however, remember being late for school one Monday morning, because Mr. Brown's family had boxed me in...

My first car was a 1973 Satellite Sebring Plus (think Roadrunner without the neat-o hood scoops) It was painted blood red, and had push bumpers attached to the front and back of it. I used to joke about how I would loose it and push the slow drivers out of my way someday.

The night before, the bar had been particularly busy when I got home from work at 1:30 in the morning, so I had to park around the corner. I got up the next day to find that my car was boxed in. There was an old station wagon about 8 inches behind my car, and Mr. Brown's truck was maybe a foot in front of me. To make matters worse, he had crap loaded in the truck that extended out over the hood of my car. I saw that his junk had scratched my paint.

Oh, no... I don't think so! It's one thing to box me in, that means I'm gonna knock on your door and wake your ass up to move your piece of shit. You don't get that courtesy if you've disrespected my car and scratched the paint. I started up my 19 foot long, hemi 318 powered muscle car and gently backed into the station wagon behind me. My intent was to push it all the way into California Ave, and leave it there as a statement to not fuck with me. I gleefully imagined their surprise to see their station wagon tying up traffic. (heh, heh, heh)

and I did nothing but break their crappy plastic front grill.

Apparently, my bumper sat just high enough to slide over their bumper; and hit the grill instead. Not wanting to actually damage their vehicle, I drove forward to my original spot and got out of the car. I was livid. I tried moving the crap in the truck, so I could push it instead, but it was too heavy.

Nothing to do now but make a scene. I gently pulled their cracked grill off their radiator and slid it back into position, so it looked like nothing had happened to it, then I went and knocked on Mr. Brown's door. I stood there in my Catholic high school uniform feeling like a damned fool for having to beg them to move their car, yet hoping someone would see me so I wouldn't be all alone when I confronted the only black homeowner on the street. Nobody saw me, and Mr. Brown himself answered the door. I asked him politely if he could please move his station wagon or truck, since they were both blocking my way and I would be late for school, which would mean a demerit because Bishop Du Bourg High was very strict. I tried to look as helpless and good-girlish as possible, and even worked up some tears. Not hard to do when you're as mad as I was at the moment. I looked down at my school-spirit red loafers and got myself ready to have a screaming argument with him. The neighborhood Code said you argued for half an hour before driving off in a huff, or you treated your victim like a helpless child and moved your car while rolling your eyeballs at their stupidity for parking where they shouldn't have. I was hoping for the latter, so I could make it to school on time.

Instead of telling me off for parking in his section, he apologized profusely and sent his daughter to move the station wagon she had so rudely boxed me in with. I was so dumbfounded by this, that I forgot to yell at him for scratching my paint. Nevertheless, I was still late for school.

Tuesdays and Wednesdays were drive like an idiot days. A favorite pastime was to stand in the middle of the street and wait for a friend to drive by so you could jump onto their car. One time K jumped a little too soon, and wound up clinging to the hood ornament and front bumper. We laughed like crazy as his pals circled the block several times, with him clinging to the front of the car like road kill. It was hilarious! They finally stopped and K said, "Dude, that wasn't funny! Couldn't you hear me yelling for you to stop?" Then he and the driver had a little fistfight while everybody else laughed at them both.
Other games were "how many Hoosiers can you fit in a car?" and "car surfing". If you've never been car surfing, here's how it works. Step 1: be a passenger in a car. Step 2: climb out of a window of the moving car. Step 3: Stand on the roof of the moving car yelling "Wooooooooooooo" and pretend to surf. Step 4: Let your girlfriend pick gravel and broken beer bottle glass out of your back while you talk about what a rush it was. You'd think my street would be spotless with all those fools picking up glass for us, but no... The drunks at the bar kept breaking more on the weekends.

Thursday was fix-your-car night. Everybody wanted to be ready for the weekend, so Thursdays saw popped hoods and greasy Levis all up and down the street. I think the goal was to get as dirty as possible, so you'd look like you'd done something productive. Us girls were allowed to hand them beer and stand around looking pretty. It was a mark of honor to have a greasy hand print on the butt of your jeans. It meant some guy who knew how to fix a car liked you.
Not that I ever saw most of them do more than change the oil, of course. When I got my own car I was tremendously popular, until I replaced the starter myself. Then the guys avoided me like the plague in public. In private, they'd park in the alley behind my house and "let" me fix the stuff they couldn't.

The weekend was reserved for fighting, of course. There was fighting at the Game Room, fighting at the bar and driving around looking for a fight. All were well lubricated with beer.